I am keeping up with the Essay-a-Day challenge, I promise. Yesterday’s essay happened in a notebook after a large glass of wine and before a very long overnight flight, so it’s not exactly ready for public consumption. Like, ever.
But now I am sitting in my hotel room in Germany, looking over rooftops and trees and listening to the rain and traffic. Dark clouds are rolling by and I could just die from this feeling of contentment.
Oh, this after being driven by my very tall, very handsome former college boyfriend in his BMW from the airport to my hotel. The 21-year-old in me is dying from giddiness and the 38-year-old married mother of one is telling her to get a hold of herself. Where is my roommate who used to tell me to “put your seatbelt on” when I was feeling just like this? Oh, I miss her right now!
Do we ever change? Are we ever not 19 or 21 — at least on the inside? These things — and people — who used to make me happy when I was young still do, unlike pretty much anything else. (Well, Sam, of course.) It’s like something was imprinted on me at birth that says that I will only feel happy on gloomy days in Germany. Which is a pity, because I don’t get too many of these days.